Dreams and nightmares
by NordicMia
Summary: The worst call and the worst diagnosis he'd ever had to make. And then some...
1. Chapter 1

**Note from Mia: I don't write AU. I like to write what could have happened between scenes and chapters. I rarely rewrite what we've already seen. Thus this is a story for those who know the series in general and the Turnadette's love story in particular. It might be confusing for a lesser nerd than I am. Also, English is my second language, sorry if the prepositions are random at times.**

With his left index finger Doctor Turner thoughtfully traced the white, vertical line in the centre of the small x-ray picture. On the desk, next to the singled out, possible death sentence, lay a pile of no less than 38 other, similar disasters, which had, up until today, been hidden in the lungs of his patients. Doctor Turner had little to no interest in the health of the 38 patients, even though some x-ray pictures showed considerably worse lesions than the one in front of him. He would, of course, study, register and refer them to the London in due course, but that was not now.

He wouldn't have been able to perform the simplest of medical tasks now. The task ahead of him was perhaps medical in some sense. Doctor McGuinness, who had given him the 39 basic x-rays with a brisk comment that he had expected worse and more, certainly would have seen his colleague's next call as purely medical. But it wasn't.

On one occasion he had touched the spine he was now tracing with his finger. Or the contour of it, through layers of her habit and her white midwife gown. It had been when the desperately scared, and thus aggressive, Meg Carter had crashed into the room where her sister was giving birth and first shoved him off balance and then slapped Sister Bernadette across her face. He'd been back on his feet in seconds, almost hit Mrs Carter but been able to control himself and had instead, instinctively reached out to steady Sister Bernadette. The action had been superfluous, of course. Sister Bernadette didn't need his support, the composure of that woman was ethereal, almost celestial. But for a second his fingers had grazed the curve of her spine in a spontaneous gesture of support. He tried to never do that, to touch her spontaneously. Due to her being a nun it was never called for, strictly off limits and far too confusing for himself. Sometimes their work made physical distance impossible, and he always braced himself with unnecessary cold professionalism on those occasions. He had to fill his mind with as much medical jargon as possible, preferably in Latin, when her strong fingers worked in sync with his. And still the images of those fingers, her determined facial expression and soft voice followed him home and into his dreams. If he, by fate or a particularly evil-minded higher authority, found himself working with her the next day as well, he was next to useless, having to suppress the confusing mix of his dreams and his reality, in her presence.

But this was not one of his dreams. This was a nightmare. A nightmare made even worse by his stupid lack of self-control and decorum at the Summer Fete, which had left him even more dumbfounded when they met. After their success of getting an X-ray van to Poplar, their conversations had, admittedly, been less stilted, but he was still embarrassed every time he looked into her blue eyes and was reminded of his unforgivable action.

 _If I believed in hell, that's where I'd be heading._

But this was a kind of hell, too. She would have to be told, and he was the one who had to tell her. In a professional manner. Without even a trace of a tremble in his voice. Without loosing himself in her gaze. Definitely without kissing any part of her anatomy.

He checked his wristwatch and realised he had an hour to make the phone calls he needed to make before he left for Nonnatus House.

His first call was to his mother-in-law, Mary Parker.

"Hello, Patrick. So good to hear your voice."

"And yours, Mary. How are you?"

"Oh, we're fine. Just fine. And you?"

"Hm, well… Timothy is fine, he's practicing the piano rather than his violin, and, truth to be told, I very much prefer that." He tried to chuckle with good humour, but it sounded more like a cough.

"Lovely. And you, Patrick? Are you well, too?"

"I'm… yes, I'm fine. Listen, I wonder if Timothy could come over and stay the night with you? I'm having a… a difficult call to make tonight and… well…"

"But of course! But haven't you got a locum to cover for you? You can't be on call day and night."

"Well, I'm a GP in Poplar, not on Harley Street where young doctors would form a line around my practice to help out with anything. And, apart from that, this is a call I need to make myself."

"It sounds serious. Is it personal? A friend?"

"Um… Well… yes, it's one of the nuns. You know I can't tell you more."

"I know. Will you bring Timothy over or will you put him on the bus?"

"No, no, I'll drive him. In about an hour?"

"Perfect. See you then."

Having eased his parental responsibilities for the evening he made his two other calls. The first one to Doctor McGuinness to arrange for a more detailed X-ray examination at the London the next morning, and the second to Saint Anne's sanatorium northeast of London. He knew Doctor James Wren, one of the senior physicians, and hoped he could be persuaded to forget the long procedure of admittance to the well renowned sanatorium. At length Doctor Turner explained why this TB-patient of his should be admitted as soon as a bed was available. Young woman, excellent nurse, brilliant midwife.

"Right, Patrick," Doctor Wren chuckled. "I hear you. She sounds like the saviour of Poplar, and that you will be left in a cursed kingdom without her. Tell me, is she pretty?"

Doctor Turner swallowed before he answered.

"She is a nun. But, yes, she is among those who are saving Poplar. Every day. As far as I know she hasn't had any symptoms yet, at least no violent cough, and I need to… I mean, I'd very much like her to receive the triple treatment to prevent the infection to develop into a contagious phase."

"Of course. We actually have an empty room as of yesterday. I was about to report it to the medical council tomorrow, but if you give me your word that she will come here tomorrow, let's say early afternoon, with all the correct referrals, test results and proper X-rays, I'm ready to turn a blind eye. If this is the sanatorium she wants to come to she would have ended up here eventually, anyway, if you referred her."

 _Wants to? She doesn't even know yet. And when I tell her, I doubt she'll want to go anywhere._

"I know that you run a good institution, James. I can't think of a place I'd rather send her to. I'll drive her there tomorrow."

"See you then, Patrick. We'll take good care of your saviour. Saviouress? Is that a word or did I just invent a new one?"

"Bye, James."

On his way back to Poplar, after having left his son with his grandparents he tried to think of something to postpone his arrival. He drove like an old man, far beneath the speed limit, but he was so unfocused it probably was for the best. When he stopped outside the red brick building of Nonnatus House his headlights illuminated the row of bikes in the shed. All the bikes were old, but reliable according to Fred. Doctor Turner guessed that the smallest one belonged to Sister Bernadette. Or was the one she used. Slowly, over the years, he had come to realise the religious vow of poverty actually meant the absence of personal belongings. The sisters weren't poor like the beggars in the streets. They ate well, slept in bed, had clean and adequate clothing. They just didn't own things that weren't necessary for their job. Their calling. They accepted gifts in the form of food and cast-off clothes, but only in order to pass them on to people in need. Timothy had given him a drawing to give to Sister Bernadette a little while back. He hoped that didn't overstep her vow of poverty.

There was also the vow of chastity. He was acutely aware of that. It tainted his memory of her fingers against his lips; a memory which popped into his head far too often and made him fell flustered and ashamed.

He wound down the window and lit a cigarette. He wondered absentmindedly if his feelings for Sister Bernadette had something to do with his late wife. When he'd become a widower, he'd cringed at the very thought of another woman, sinner or saint. No one would ever be able to take his wife's place in his heart, his life, in Timothy's life, in the community. And no one had. But he had found resources, previously unknown, in himself to step up and be a more attentive parent and a more social person. Sometimes he felt he'd wasted so many years of his marriage by being far too committed to his work. When his wife became ill he had regretted it sorely, but by then it was too late. Guiltily he calculated that he'd spent more time nursing her when she was dying for three agonising months, than he had during the three years that came before her cancer diagnosis.

Perhaps Sister Bernadette's unattainability was part of the equation. Or perhaps it had started that way. The nuns and the nurses had been so supportive during his wife's illness and during the months after her funeral. And they felt safe. He never had to consider them as women, could leave the gossip he knew was going mouth to mouth in Poplar about the doctor needing to get himself a new wife. And then… And then the quietest of them all, the youngest and most accomplished midwife had opened up and spoken about the resilience of children when he had admitted being worried about Timothy's first Christmas without his mother. Not in a cold or practical manner, but with a hint of her own childhood. And she had become a person for him. Not a nun who was professionally compassionate, but a young woman who could relate to his son's grief and his own helplessness about it. He'd gone home with a small, but warm hope in his heart, and tried his best to make Christmas into something that wasn't a pale and incomplete copy of the Christmas before, but a new kind of holiday with just him and his son.

 _Saviour, James said. Indeed._

He flicked away the cigarette end and got out of the car. He straightened his tie and retrieved his doctor's bag from the boot. Thus, as ready as he could possibly hope for, he climbed the stairs to the door.

* * *

"Would you like me to get Sister Julienne for you?"

She nodded. She didn't meet his eyes, but kept an unfocused gaze on the small x-ray picture in front of her on the table.

He rose and wanted to reach out and touch her. Maybe he had, if he hadn't known that it would destroy his barely held together professionalism.

"Hm, would you…"

She looked up at him and he lost his train of thought. The pain in her eyes was like the pain in Timothy's during those first weeks without his mother. He pulled himself together.

"Would you like me to tell her? And the others?"

She parted her pale lips but searched for words.

"Yes… Yes, tell the sisters, if they are with her. Not the nurses yet. Not… I don't…"

"Shh… " He placed his hand momentarily on hers. Her hand was ice-cold but he couldn't decide whether the tremble he felt came from himself or her. "I'll get Sister Julienne. I'll be quick."

When he was about to close the door behind him he heard her draw in a shaky breath and he winced. He had no right to be the one to comfort her, and even if he had, he couldn't think of a single sentence in the English language that would be appropriate and comforting. He cursed silently and closed the door.

* * *

Sister Julienne's ever-present friendly smile fell when she saw him. Sisters Monica Joan and Evangelina sat at the kitchen table, while Sister Julienne prepared a pot of tea. Sister Monica Joan had already helped herself to an almond shortbread.

"Doctor?"

He swallowed.

"Sister Bernadette?" she asked.

"Hm, yes," he heard himself answer. "She has… The screening showed…"

"No!" Sister Evangelina exclaimed. "Not her. She's… she's, well, young and…"

"I know," Doctor Turner replied. "Unfortunately TB isn't choosy. Nor merciful. And now, maybe because Sister Bernadette is young and otherwise healthy, the disease has taken her prisoner without anyone noticing."

He wondered briefly where all these literary metaphors came from. He was usually more to the point and abhorred embellishments that hid the true meaning of what was said.

"Could you come with me, Sister? I need to carry out an examination for my referral and she… Sister Bernadette needs you."

"Of course." The nun passed him quickly and headed for the makeshift clinic room next to the nurses' office and storerooms. When he reached the door he'd closed minutes before he paused. The hushed voices of the two women were mingled. He couldn't make out their words at first, but then the voices were joined in the Lord's prayer. Silently he prayed too, and gave them a few seconds after "Amen" before he opened the door and entered.

He didn't know where to look when she undressed. He retrieved his stethoscope from his bag and the instrument in his hands and against his throat restored some of his professional role. The crackles from her lungs into his ears forced him even more into his doctor mode.

Her cervical vertebrae were too pronounced, as was her collarbones. He had no idea if she'd always been that skinny or if it was the weight loss associated with TB that had stolen weight from her.

By the way she turned her face away from him when he listened to her chest, he decided to perform his pulmonary examination on her back only. He placed his right long finger an inch to the left of her spine and tapped the middle joint with his left. He repeated this on both sides along her spine and felt more dullness than he feared from the x-ray. Both her lungs were severely affected by the silent killer of tuberculosis. His fingers, as sensitive as a thermometer, also picked up on a simmering, low-grade fever. Again he cursed silently.

He explained that he'd arranged for a more detailed x-ray the next morning and a bed at Saint Anne's sanatorium. As he had expected both sisters needed time to digest the devastating news.

"I will drive you," he repeated.

They thanked him absentmindedly. He felt dismissed. The sisters left the room, the older supporting the younger. He closed his bag and followed them. On his way out he passed the chapel. It was empty, but lit by a few candles on the altar.

 _I'll do anything, God. I'll sacrifice anything. Don't punish her for my sins. Keep her safe. Heal her. I'm not sure I or my medicine can. I'm not sure You can either. Thy will be done._

* * *

He forced himself to get out of the car at Kenilworth Row and into his flat. It was cold and quiet. He lit the fire, dropped his coat on an armchair, and collapsed on the couch. Gradually the room became warmer. He debated whether he should eat something, but decided against it. He went into the larder and took down the bottle of scotch he had there. It was dusty; he rarely drank at home. While the fire died down to glowing embers he drank, prayed, smoked and cursed. Eventually he fell asleep for a few hours, waking with a wryneck and terrible headache, more from exhaustion than excessive drinking.

At nine o'clock he had shaved, swallowed some aspirin, drunk enough coffee to feel slightly shaky and driven to Nonnatus House to pick up his patient. His only patient of the day; he'd cancelled all other calls and consultations.

Silence didn't bother her, he realised when they left the centre of London, and drove northeast, towards the Essex border. The Great Silence of her religious life must have taught her that. It bothered him, though, and to no small amount. He was lousy at chitchat and he'd never even attempted it with neither the nuns nor the nurses. There had always been far too important information to communicate with any of the inhabitants of Nonnatus House before. But what would be the point of taking about possible difficult deliveries now? Even if they both knew the expecting mothers of Poplar, that door had been closed to her. For now. He guessed she was agonising about whether she'd unknowingly had put someone at risk by her mere presence.

"Since you haven't developed any cough yet, there is next to no risk that you have spread the infection," he said, hoping to lift her mood just a little.

"I know," she said. "Or I try to tell myself."

And that was that. He drove a few more miles, biting his tongue to prevent himself from starting to blabber some meaningless litany about the beauty of the countryside. She sat as still as a statue and just as silent.

They were quite early; it was just past noon and no more that half an hour to the sanatorium. Before he could mentally talk himself out of it he turned into a smaller road and stopped. The soft landscape was a soft, foggy, green hue, and he wanted nothing more than hide in this place where he couldn't see further than a few hundred yards in any direction. He turned of the ignition and sighed.

Slowly she faced him.

"Why have we stopped, Doctor?"

He didn't answer. He desperately wanted a cigarette.

"I'm sorry," he said, without looking at her.

"What for?"

"For this." He made a non-committal gesture that could mean just about anything.

Her training in silence unnerved him and in his frustration he found the courage to face her.

"I'm sorry you are ill, I'm sorry I had to be the one to diagnose your TB, I'm sorry we can't speak as we could before, before I forced my unwelcome affections on you, I'm sorry I…"

She put her fingers to his lips and he forgot the rest of his sentence.

"Don't," she said quietly.

Her fingers smelled of soap and had the tell tale temperature of fever.

"Don't what?" he whispered.

She looked away and answered just as quietly.

"Don't assume it was unwelcome."

His heart started to beat hard in his chest when he realised what she had said. His hand came up to grasp her fingers, but she quickly withdrew.

"I've been so lost," she continued. "I still am. I don't know, or I don't understand God's plan for me. This… this illness, these months of treatment in a place I don't know is not what I wished for, but it might be what I need. To think. To feel and try to listen to His voice, if I can discern it. I need to think about you. I need to test the strength of my hope."

He was not sure when she referred to him and when to her God, but knew he couldn't press her. He put his hand against her cheek. His fingers only touched her wimple, but a bit of his palm rested against her skin. She leaned, a fraction of an inch, into his hand, and that was all the answer he could hope for.

"I can't talk with you, like this," she mumbled, more to herself than to him. "It's not…"

"Let's not talk then."

She sighed, closed her eyes, but didn't move away.

"Can I write to you?" he asked eventually.

After a few seconds' hesitation she nodded.

He placed his palm against her forehead. It was too warm.

"Saint Anne's sanatorium is one of the best close to London. You will receive excellent care and treatment, and you need it."

"I know. Thank you for driving me. And possibly arranging for this speedy admission. Did you have to pull strings, Doctor?"

He started the car and reversed out onto the main road. He gave her a quick look and a smile before he changed the gears.

"Yes. But I'd do it again, any time."

"Thank you."

The road took them past Epping Forest, before the village of Woodford narrowed the country road into streets. He parked outside the large, white building at the edge of the village. When it was built it had been outside the borders of the village, as a means to isolate the ill and prevent spreading of the disease.

When he handed her her suitcase her fingers brushed against his. He wondered if that would ever happen again. Her smile when she thanked him and stumbled a little over her words about him being more than kind, erased his guilt at his ill-considered release of his affection earlier in the summer. He watched her walking away from him and into the building. She didn't turn around.

* * *

He had no idea how he got home, but found himself gazing blindly through the flow of rain against his windscreen. He was home, but couldn't feel it at all. When he eventually got in, he couldn't think of anything he wanted to do. He made sandwiches for Timothy and himself, and was easily persuaded to let Timothy read as many chapters he wanted before turning off his lights. Then he pulled out some stationary and started to write. He was well aware that he wasted the good quality paper with words he could never send her, but he needed to write them. They were words he hadn't written in more than 15 years. Words of love.

 _How come you touch my heart with just a gaze? Even over a bloodied mattress in the most squalid tenement. How come you can bring a smile to an exhausted mother's face after she's been cursing about how she doesn't want this twelfth child, during hours of labour? How come you can calm down a nervous father-to-be with just a few words? How come your every gesture, smile and compassionate word are echoing and replaying inside me every minute of every day. And every night. Even more so now that you are not here._

 **I could continue this, if you like. Or just leave it as it is.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for your reviews and a vote for more. Well, how can I resist this hidden love story? There are so many blanks between scenes and episodes. So many what if's/could have been's. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing. Basically I'm writing just because I want to stick around Poplar.**

What he eventually sent her, a few days later, was a more polished account of how sorely missed she was by the whole community. He reminded her of cases they had attended together and how he missed her skills and experience when he now found himself with similar complications in a patient. He wrote about Timothy and the sisters and the nurses.

 _They miss you and pray for you, as do I,_

he finished, signed it and closed the envelope before he could change his mind.

He had no reply and the following week he wrote a similar account of Poplar, patients, mothers, cats, cricket practising and the weather. He heard nothing back.

* * *

Doctor Turner was professional. He rarely used his title to gleam information he wasn't entitled to. Even if he could have contacted John Lacey's former GP to ask whether the grumpy domestic tyrant that Nurse Miller was trying to treat always had been such a difficult patient, he couldn't see the need. The man's appalling diet, excessive drinking and lack of physical exercise called for insulin injection, even if he liked them as little as Nurse Miller liked to administer them. And he was too aware of the workload of any of his colleagues in the East End. He found it difficult himself to answer questions about former patients, without digging up old case notes, and that took time he didn't really have to spare.

But now he was contemplating calling Doctor Wren at Saint Anne's sanatorium and ask about Sister Bernadette.

 _She is my colleague, after all. A highly valued colleague. Of course there is nothing inappropriate with asking about her health, her progress. Is there?_

He postponed for a couple of days, but then he found himself alone in his consulting room after an afternoon clinic. The nurses had tidied up quickly, and none had stayed behind to have the last of the tea, or nibbling the last biscuits. He realised it was Friday night and that they probably was off call. He knew that his friend Doctor Wren also might be off-duty, but dialled the number anyway.

"Wren here."

"James, it's Patrick. Patrick Turner."

"Oh, yes. How's Poplar?"

"Cold. Poor. Dark."

"Really? Sometimes you describe it quite differently. Brimming with life and with the NHS clearing up the last of the Victorian past."

"Yes, yes, I know. And it is that too. Not just today."

"All right. Are you calling about a new referral? Because if you do, I can't help you like a couple of weeks ago. Not a single available bed and no patients on their way out, I'm afraid."

"Well, I'm not. I'm calling about the patient I referred to you. The nun."

"Oh, yes! The little sister. Bernadette. That's actually not her Christian name, did you know? I don't get that. It's called a Christian name, the name given at the baptism, but then when someone like this little sister really wants to dedicate her life to the church, or Christ, or whatever, they invent a new name."

"I think it has something to do with honouring former sisters or saints."

Doctor Turner wished his colleague would be less of a chatterbox.

"Why don't they all call themselves Mary, then? Surely that would be the one whose footsteps they would want to follow? Not Mary Magdalene, I would guess."

"Um, James, I really have no idea…"

"But I've seen the little sister, who wasn't born Bernadette, today."

"Yes, and?"

"Hm, difficult to say."

"Is she better or not? Is she responding to the treatment or not?"

"Well, yes and no."

Doctor Turner feared he'd crack one of his molars by gritting his teeth.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that… eh, she tolerates the treatment, that's a start, you know there are side effects as many as… eh, whatever. The dullness I detected with percussion, as you did too, during her initial examination seems a little less pronounced, at least on her right side. She has gained a pound in weight, which isn't much, not even for such a thin woman as she. She was frightfully underweight when she came. And the streptomycin doesn't really help her appetite, poor woman.

 _And that damned… And her habit hid that from even her sisters. They would have noticed if she had been in a nurse's uniform._

"So, physically," Doctor Wren continued, "she seems to fight the infection. Still no coughing, even though she wheezing occasionally like a patient three times her age."

Doctor Turner winced at this.

"You say physically. Is there something else you can tell me about her progress?"

"Mm, coming to that. Not so much progress, I'm afraid. She's extremely withdrawn. Bordering on being clinically depressed, I'd say. But I'm no psychiatrist. You, as a GP, would probably be the better judge regarding her mental and emotional health. Especially since you know her. How about popping over some day soon and have a chat with her? She'd might confide in you, about what might be worrying her."

"No!" was his instinctive response.

 _I might be what's worrying her._

"I mean, I couldn't. I really haven't got the time, clinic hours and house calls are… And Timothy, my son… I'm sorry, James, but if you think she needs it you'd better consult a specialist. But for the record, she is a very low-key person. Humble, I'd say, and taken out of her normal, well, setting in lack of a better word, she might seem… as you say, depressed."

"I'll give it a few more days. She'll have a visitor on Sunday, one of the nurses she works with. That might perk her up. But I'll keep you posted about her progress. Just don't go expecting weekly reports. There just aren't enough hours in the day for that. But you are welcome to call again and my memory should be clear enough to sum up her treatment and progress."

They said good-bye. Doctor Turner leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. The paint was peeling in long, greyish shreds. He felt rather grey, himself, and wondered what he would do with the information he'd just received.

Sister Bernadette, whose Christian name remained a mystery, even though he'd had a fleeting inclination to ask his colleague what it was, was indeed a withdrawn person in public, in any context where her skills weren't asked for. But depressed? He feared it had rather more to do with her faith, and himself. And doubts about both. She had admitted as much, when they were on their way to the sanatorium.

He decided to try to find out which one of the nurses had planned to visit on Sunday. Nurse Lee? Nurse Franklin? He had a vague memory that Nurse Miller would be on call. But then, after Sunday, he would ask whichever of them who'd gone to Essex to see how Sister Bernadette was.

Up until then all he could was write. He couldn't tell her that he'd spoken to Doctor Wren at Saint Anne's, and couldn't thus ask about if she felt depressed or sad or overly tired. And even if he could, and did, any change in her could somehow be related to the vast side effects of the rather heavy medication.

It was a miraculous treatment, he knew that. It could actually cure the disease, not just alleviate the symptoms, like earlier combinations of drugs had. He could write about that, and he did.

 _I hope the side effects aren't too bad. The antibiotic might play havoc with your appetite, but remember that nutritious food is medicine in itself._

And then he tore the paper in two before her crumbled the pieces and threw them in the wastebasket. She knew, as well as he did, about the medication, and knew the importance of going through it, even if it made her feel more ill than the tuberculosis itself.

 _Poplar is gloomy without you. I miss working with you. I miss you smile, your laugh, your calmness in the face of tragedy. I wish nothing more than for you to return healthy to Nonnatus House. I will never embarrass you again with what I should keep to myself, but know that you are precious to me and that I consider every minute with you a gift._

It was too much, he knew that. But somehow he didn't care. It was true. If Sister Bernadette were to return to exactly what she was doing a month ago in Poplar, he would treasure every minute working with her. Even if images of her fingers and her smile followed him home and hollowed his sleep. Even if he'd spend every case with her mentally revising the different bones in the human hand, in Latin. Even if the memory of her fingers against his lips in the kitchen in the church hall always would be a memory of him overstepping rules and decorum. But there was another memory of her fingers against his lips. In his car on a narrow, foggy country lane. When she'd told him not to assume his affections weren't welcome. A memory of hope.

* * *

As it turned out he never had to ask which one of the nurses was going to visit the sanatorium. When Timothy and he went to the market on Saturday morning, his son suddenly left him and ran to stop Nurse Franklin, who came biking from Lisbon Building.

The young nurse looked exhausted, and he joined Timothy at the pavement where she had stopped.

"Good morning, nurse," he offered as way of greeting.

"Good morning, doctor. It's rather good night for me, though. I was called out at seven yesterday evening. And I was supposed to have been off duty."

She told him briefly about the delivery, which had taken all night, and he nodded. Timothy interrupted.

"Can you take a letter to Sister Bernadette tomorrow, Nurse Franklin?"

The nurse turned all her focus on his son and beamed at him. In her smile Doctor Turner could see how young she actually was, under the layers of tiredness.

"Of course, Timothy. I'm sure she'll be thrilled to have a letter from you. Can you bring it round to Nonnatus before tomorrow?"

"Yeah! Brilliant!"

Timothy ran off back into the market.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Sister Bernadette? I really have no idea. Not worse, I guess. Sister Julienne has read us parts of her letters, but you know; she is by far the quietest of them. She wouldn't dream of writing anything that could make us feel sorry for her. Which, of course, does exactly that. Poor thing."

"Hm, yes. It's good of you to visit her on your free Sunday. I'll make sure Tim comes over with that letter later. But for now I prescribe a few hours of sleep for you."

"Thank you, Doctor Turner. And my Sunday is, as you say, free, and I'm going to do what I want most of all. To visit my friend in the sanatorium."

She took off, and he watched her depart.

 _I wish I also could do that. What I want, most of all._

Nurse Franklin's shapely legs pedalled her bike away from him. He remembered when she'd joined the Nonnatus House as a nurse and midwife about five years ago. Like a movie star or a pin-up girl in the practical, baby-blue nurse's uniform she'd taken them all by surprise. It was, at first, difficult to take her seriously, because of her obvious beauty and frivolous manner, but he'd soon come to learn it was all show. She was more than competent, never hesitated to go into the darkest alleys or the most foul-smelling tenements. He'd seen her kneel on floors so covered with rat droppings and other unidentifiable health hazards, that he himself wanted to turn around. She had once asked him if he too could actually lean against a particular diagnosis when it came to the overwhelmingly pungent odour of venereal diseases. He'd been totally baffled by her question, and muttered something about blood tests.

Nurse Franklin had helped to care for his wife, when she was dying. He'd often passed Nurse Franklin the syringes with morphine to ease the pain of his dying wife, as he found it hard doing it himself. She hadn't even blinked, but swiftly performed the task, made sure that the barely conscious woman in the bed was as comfortable as possible, and given him a pat on the shoulder before she left. It had, admittedly, been easier to talk to her, or one of the other nurses, about the imminent death of his wife. Of Timothy's mother. The nuns seemed to be on another celestial level, with their belief in life hereafter and, at the time, he was not yet ready to accept that he'd soon be a single parent and a widower. A few days before his wife died, Nurse Franklin had lingered after her late evening call. He'd wondered if she were to burden him with complaints about the locum doctor who filled in for him, and who prescribed the most medieval treatments and had a bedside manner of a bricklayer. But that was not what she'd wanted to talk about.

"You know how little time there is left, don't you, Doctor?"

He'd nodded. It had been days since his wife made any sign of communication, and occasionally her breathing was terrifyingly rattling.

"If there is anything you want or need to tell her, do so now. She may not hear you, or understand you, but you will know that you've said it. It will help you. After."

"It will?" he'd asked, trying to focus of her young face, which was blurry in his eyes.

"Yes. I believe so. And ask Timothy to do the same. Tell him that his mother will take his words with her to heaven. He will remember that."

He'd nodded again, too drained to argue or answer. She'd taken his hand and held it. A minute might have passed, and he'd fleetingly wondered if she'd been praying. Then she'd left him with her usual pat on the shoulder, and he'd begun whispering all the words that were at war inside him. He'd cursed and prayed and repeatedly promised to take care of their son, to the best of his abilities, even though he doubted everything he knew and could.

Nurse Franklin had been right. It had helped him, to some extent. Having been at the receiving end of Nurse Franklin's compassion, he'd admired her skills and professionalism even more. She'd never mentioned her advice that evening when they met at Nonnatus House, or anywhere else. He'd been a grieving family member of a patient, a role she'd never met him in before, but she'd never seen the need of reminding him of later.

And still, he'd never, not even once, been tempted to think about her as anything but a most competent and trusted nurse. Despite being someone that all male inhabitants between 9 and 90 in Poplar noticed, her beauty was wasted on him, it did nothing to him except raise a fleeting thought if anyone really could be that blonde.

He'd noticed one of the nuns, instead. When Sister Bernadette and he had spoken about Christmas, about the resilience of children, about Timothy. But from that day he had noticed her, sometimes with despair, and wished he'd been able to focus his possible interest on someone like Nurse Franklin. Or just about anyone less complicated to have feelings for than a nun.

In the pocket of his jacket lay the letter he'd written the evening before. He felt angry for not being able to visit Sister Bernadette as a friend, for being so restricted by code of conduct, his professional role, her calling, everything. A red letterbox stood half a block away, and before he could change his mind he'd strode there quickly and posted it. It wouldn't reach her before Monday, but now it was literally out of his hands.

* * *

 _Thank your father for his kind letters. I shall reply to them in due course._

It was an answer, of sorts. Or a confirmation that she'd received his letters, and found them kind. Or was it just politeness, on her part?

Doctor Turner slammed the boot of his car shut with unnecessary force.

Whatever he did it just left him more confused and preoccupied with the vast sea of possible outcomes of his actions, or lack of actions.

As the weeks passed he thought he could feel his hair turning greyer, even though the bathroom mirror said more about the greyness of his general appearance, than his still dark hair. He kept writing to her, once a week. Sometimes about life in Poplar, and sometimes shorter missives where he threaded carefully between too much and not enough at all. He never mentioned her leaving her calling, nor breaking any of her vows. He tried to express how much he admired her, and how fortunate he counted himself to be to have the chance of working with her. He wrote quite a lot about the rewards of working in the poorest parts of London, how their medical professions were profoundly different than they would have been in Harley Street.

After a taxing house call to a complicated twin birth, which had ended with an ambulance and possibly an emergency caesarean at the hospital, Sister Julienne and he cleared up the messy bedroom in the now empty tenement. Well on the street he stood waiting by his car for her to mount her bike and be off. He didn't like the thought of leaving a woman alone in these, barely lit, narrow alleys, and wanted to drive behind her until she reached the more central parts of Poplar. But instead of biking away she lead her bike towards his car and met his eyes over the roof of his car.

"I went to see Sister Bernadette yesterday," she said.

He gripped the door handle hard.

"Oh, and how is she?"

"She is better, Doctor. Much so. He lungs have healed surprisingly well, according to the doctor there."

"Doctor Wren, yes. Good, good. Is she coming back?"

"Coming back?"

"Um, yes, to you? To Poplar? Is she well enough to be discharged?"

"Yes, I she is. Next week. She isn't sure about returning, though."

He could feel his heart sink. He could literally feel it gain the density of lead and rip a bleeding wound on its way down his body.

"No?"

He coughed to hide the tremble in his voice.

"No, not to us. Not to Nonnatus House. She thinks God has other plans for her. Outside the Order."

"Outside Poplar?"

He hated the way his desperation tainted his unguarded question. Sister Julienne watched him steadily, but the condemnation he expected to see in her eyes wasn't there. She had that ever-present smile of hers. The smile he'd come to recognise as faith in her God. The smile he'd only seen fall the night he'd diagnosed Sister Bernadette's TB.

"No, not necessarily outside Poplar."

He swallowed but guarded his tongue.

"She told me you have been writing to her."

It wasn't a question, but he answered all the same.

"Yes. Yes, I have. I asked her if I could. I've tried not to influence her decisions about her future."

"Yes, I know, Doctor. She told me that too."

 _Dear God, has this woman read my letters? I'll never be able to…_

"And she said that you perhaps have showed her the path to God's plan for her."

"She did?" He couldn't hide his smile.

"Doctor Turner. Sister Bernadette is one of ours, at Nonnatus House. And one of Poplar's. The doctor at the sanatorium made some quip about her being a saviour, which is a word I hardly think is appropriate in a human context. But, that apart, we care deeply for her. But we also do for you. You are also one of ours, and have been since you first moved here with your wife, and with Timothy on the way. We've never had a doctor we'd been abled to count on for so many years and in so many ways. Before you we had a parade of locums, more or less qualified and full of disgust for the people we treat. You were a godsend. You were an answer to our prayers."

Doctor Turner could feel his cheeks grow hot and started to say something to interrupt her praise. He didn't feel worthy of it, but she held up her hand and continued unperturbed.

"When your wife died, we cried with you and for you and wondered if you'd be able to keep being this compassionate doctor we'd come to know. And you did. But it has taken a toll on you. I can see you struggling with Timothy and covering for other GP's. We have prayed for you. So often, so much. We've prayed that God would show you a way, too. Possibly outside Poplar, possibly at another kind of practice, possibly with someone… It's not for us to demand how God answers our prayers, we can only pray for his grace. And maybe this is how he answers."

"Do you really think so?" he asked quietly.

An even brighter smile lit up her face.

"What I think is not important, Doctor Turner. But I believe."

He searched for word for a couple of seconds. It was four in the morning and the stillness around them was unnatural for the usually brimming streets. The early hour, or the darkness, or his lack of sleep might have been the reason he found strength to ask what he'd during daytime wouldn't have dared.

"Are you disappointed in her, Sister? In me? Do you find me writing to Sister Bernadette inappropriate?"

"Doctor Turner, how could I? Between you two you have more integrity and compassion then the vicar's wife's choir. Don't tell Mrs Clark that. As I said, I believe. In God, and how he choses to answer our prayers. Now you'll have to excuse me. Morning prayers in half an hour."

She mounted her bike, looked back at him and seemed to hesitate a second before she spoke.

"I'd say your letters have been just as instrumental in her treatment than the medication, rest and nutritious food. You'd done nothing wrong. I'd say you've saved her."

* * *

His first house call in the morning was at nine o'clock, but he'd struggled through days with less sleep than the three hours he'd managed to get before Sister Julienne had called the night before. He put the kettle on in the kitchen, being as quiet as possible. Timothy was an early riser, and a light sleeper. Sometimes his son wanted to come with him in the middle of the night, on an emergency call, and Doctor Turner always felt ambivalent about leaving his son in an empty house or taking him along and leaving him alone in the car.

Opening the door to Timothy's bedroom he saw his son sprawled across the bed.

He was running short of stationary, but there were still a few sheets left in in the box.

How would he begin? He regretted never to have asked about her Christian name, but maybe that was not what she used yet. Again. He found it difficult to address her as Sister Bernadette, though. The Sister in front of her name had always created a distance when he wrote. He could hide his, sometimes, ambiguous, words under the "Sister" at the top of the paper, and the "Doctor" at the end. From what Sister Julienne had told him tonight, that distance might not be necessary, not even wanted. He didn't want it, he knew that, for certain, but did she?

 _My dearest friend,_

 _Sister Julienne just told me that you are being discharged next week. Wonderful news! I couldn't be happier. She also said that you might consider a life outside the order. And hinted that I had something to do with that. And God._

 _Maybe I'm barging in where I'm not wanted, but you must know how much I love you, by now. If you were to leave Nonnatus House but still stay in Poplar to serve all our patients there, I hope you will do so by my side._

 _I don't strive to overwhelm you, but I can't help speaking of what my heart is full of. Please call me when you are discharged. I'm looking forward to seeing you again. I know Timothy does too. If the doctors at the sanatorium haven't been able to find the cause of death for his dead butterfly, I'm sure it's not a cardinal sin to make something up. Old age, perhaps?_

 _Yours,_

 _P Turner_

 **Please review if you can spare the time. I'd be ever so grateful and inspired.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for your feed-back. Glad to find there are others as obsessed as I with this beautiful love story. I got to write a lot of father-son dialogue in this chapter, which was surprisingly easy. All was not easy to write, though. I'm thrilled to know how you find it. /Mia**

But five days later he put down the receiver before was focused enough to tell her to wait at the sanatorium until the afternoon. When he could come and collect her. After a hurried morning round he drove northeast with Timothy in the passenger seat. It was half term and he couldn't find it in his heart to tell his son to stay at home, alone. His conscience often told him that Timothy spent far too much time alone. And this… this step, this risk, this going out on a limb, this reaching out was about Timothy, too. It was when Sister Bernadette had asked about Timothy last Christmas that he'd begun seeing her that someone else than "one of the nuns." He knew she genuinely cared about his son, and that she was Timothy's absolute favourite among the sisters.

"Why are we going to pick up Sister Bernadette? Why isn't she taking the bus?"

Timothy loved riding buses around London, so the question had nothing to do with either them or Sister Bernadette. He just couldn't understand how anyone would consider travelling in his father's old MG, rather than enjoying the view from a bus.

Doctor Turner swallowed and glanced at his son. He needed to have this discussion, now. Timothy needed to know his fathers intentions towards the soon former nun.

"Timothy, we have to talk about something. Now."

"I'm sorry I broke those petri dishes. They just went all slippery when I washed them."

"What? Oh, never mind the petri dishes. We are going to pick up Sister Bernadette because…"

 _Hm, yes, because what, Doctor? Because you love her and can't live without her and Timothy, how would you like her as your new mother?_

"Because?" asked his son. "Is she well, again? Is she coming back to work?"

"Um, yes, she is better. The TB is no longer active, but she will need time to rest and convalesce."

"Conva… what?"

"Convalescence. It means rest."

"But you said that. Rest."

"I… well… She is better, almost completely recovered, but there will be some changes."

"Like what?"

"She will not continue being a nun."

"Really? Cool."

"Cool?" he asked, masking a grin.

"Yeah. She is so much younger than, well than Sister Monica Joan most of all, and she is really funny and pretty and she can run really fast, even in a three-legged race."

Doctor Turner laughed.

"You are absolutely right, but those things were important when she was a nun, too, don't you think?"

His son pondered his words.

"Not being pretty," he said finally. "As a nun you can't marry and what's the point of being pretty, then?"

"Well, as I said, she will not continue being a nun. She is coming back to Poplar. I have been writing letters to her and today she called me and said that she was coming back. I hope she means to be part of my life. Or that's how I understood her. That's what I wish, and what I've written to her."

His son was quiet, and when he chanced another glance at him, Timothy's eyes were the size of saucers. Doctor Turner was at loss for words but continued anyway.

"Will you… How do you… I should have said something earlier, but I wasn't sure… about anything."

"Dad! She is a nun!"

"But she wants to stop being a nun."

"I said she was too pretty for being a nun. Do you also think so, then?"

Doctor Turner could feel himself blush and searched for his cigarettes.

"Do you?" his son asked, almost with a squeal this time.

"Yes. Yes, I do. And I like her. More than the other nuns or nurses. And that's not because she's pretty, even though I think she is beautiful."

"As beautiful as Mum?"

He considered this for a second, while lightening a cigarette.

"Yes, but in a completely different way."

"Do you like Nurse Franklin, too? She's pretty. And Nurse Lee. And Nurse Miller when they dress up to go out. Akela is too large to be pretty, but I think she's smashing anyway."

He laughed at his son's logic.

"Tim. How you feel about a person has very little to do with how they look. I've known Sister Bernadette for years, but it wasn't until we started talking about other things than work that I began to… to like her as more than a friend and colleague."

"What did you talk about?" Timothy asked curiously.

"Um… We talked about you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. I was worried about you last Christmas, when it was out first Christmas without Mum, and I spoke to Sister Bernadette about it."

"And what did she say?"

"She said that you probably were stronger than I thought. And she was right. We are managing without Mum, even if we'll always miss her."

Timothy nodded.

"But, Dad, do you like her like you want to marry her?"

Doctor Turner coughed, not to hide his reply or postpone his answer, but because he was genuinely stunned by his son's casual, but to the point, question. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Yes, Tim. I do. What do you think about that?"

His son didn't answer, and turned his head to look out through the window.

"Tim?"

He braked softly and pulled over. When the car stood still he touched his son's shoulder.

"Tim? Is there something about that that worries you? That I would like to ask Sister Bernadette, when she is no longer a nun, to marry me? If she wants to."

Slowly his son faced him with a confused look on his face.

"Do you think she will?"

"I hope so," he answered with his heart in his throat.

"Will she…? Would she live with us?"

"If she wants to marry me I assume she wants to live with us, yes."

"And me?"

"What do you mean, Tim?"

"Maybe she wants children of her own. Babies. Not me."

He stroked the back of Timothy's neck and chose his word carefully.

"Tim, I haven't asked her to marry me, yet. Maybe she doesn't want to. But if she does, I know for certain that she is very, very fond of you."

"But she is not Mum."

"No, she isn't. No one will ever be like Mum. No one will ever try to take Mum's place. That's impossible. But I think that asking Sister Bernadette to be part of our family could be such a good thing. For all of us."

"Our family? You and me?"

"Yes, our family."

Timothy bit the nail of his thumb.

"Can I ask her?"

"Ask her what?"

"If she wants to marry you?"

A slow smile spread across his face before he started laughing. An uncertain glint in Timothy's eyes made him stop.

"Yes, Tim, yes you can. But perhaps not today. First we are going to pick her up from the sanatorium."

But instead they found themselves driving down various country roads to the west, once they figured out which bus she had most likely taken, and called Nonnatus House to find out that she hadn't been on the one they had thought.

"So, please, Tim, leave the talking to me," he repeated.

"Right, Dad! But look! There is a lady with a suitcase. Is that her?"

"I believe it is. Please, Tim, wait in the car."

His son grumbled a bit but agreed.

* * *

It was her. A version of he he'd never seen or could have imagined. She was so… small, so thin, so pretty. Without the wimple and habit he realised how utterly young she was, as her former clothes had made her somehow age-less. For a second he felt far too old and careworn to have written his carefully selected words of love to her, but then she smiled, and all his doubts vanished like smoke.

"Why didn't you wait for me? Shelagh? At the sanatorium?"

"I didn't know if you'd… I know you are always busy… And I wanted to be independent. And made a fool out of myself for not even getting on a bus in the right direction."

"You are independent, Shelagh. And you are here. I never thought that we'd be in the middle of nowhere when we met again, but here we are."

"Yes. Patrick." She said his name as if tasting something new. It was. "I didn't know your first name before."

His hands that kept his coat around her loosened their grip and he pulled her to him. Closely they stood with her head against his shoulder. Her hair smelled of flowers and summer rains.

"I can't believe that I can hold you like this and not be struck down by… I don't know… lightening… God."

"God isn't like that. Not my God. He's more about love."

She leaned back in his embrace and smiled up at him. Her hand came up to cup his face. He wanted to ask her if he could kiss her but found no words. She nodded slowly and he had a fleeting thought about reading up telepathy. Reverently he kissed her forehead, her temples, and her cheeks before he very lightly touched her lips with his. Her quiet gasp made his head spin. He smiled against her skin and exhaled.

"I'm so glad I found you. Here and now, and there and then."

"I'm so glad to be found. By you."

A light drizzle began to fall.

"As much as I'd like to stay in the middle of nowhere with you forever and ever, I think it's time to go back. Back to Poplar. Timothy is in the car."

"He is?" She straightened up with a dazzling smile when she tried to look beyond his shoulder. She lifted her and waved, before she disentangled herself from his arms and hurried towards the car behind him. Timothy met her halfway and threw his arms around her. Doctor Turner saw Shelagh bend her head to his son's and immediately start talking. Timothy looked happy and answered back just as animatedly.

 _Something genetic? The way she brings out the best in us?_

* * *

In his car, on the way back to Poplar he found reasons to brush her hand with his fingers every other minute. After a few miles she placed her hand and on his arm and held it there. From the corner of his eye he saw her looking at him. Not all the time, but, he calculated, as often as his fingers had brushed hers. He chanced a glance in the rear-view mirror and saw Timothy looking out of the window with a smile upon his face.

"To Nonnatus?" he asked her quietly when they came into the well-known streets of Poplar.

She fidgeted slightly.

"No. Sister Julienne said I was welcome, but I feel I need some time alone, or at least away from… well, not them, but… It's rather intense, even on a calm day and I'm not really prepared to…"

"To be the centre of attention?"

"Hm, yes. Something like that. Could you drive me to the boarding house on St Stephen's Road? Sister Julienne has arranged for me to rent a room there. And, I think, explained about why I'm not staying at Nonnatus."

It was just a few blocks away from his own flat, and even if that made his heart race, he wasn't sure how he felt about her being alone.

"But you are going to Nonnatus House? Later? Tomorrow?"

"Of course I will. I'm meeting Sister Julienne tomorrow morning, to…"

"To what?"

"To talk about… To renounce my vows."

The dignity of her words hit him hard. Nonnatus House and her role in its daily work had been her life for almost ten years. He realised that he was not the only one who went out on a limb, took a risk, reached out for something that wasn't yet clear. He placed his right hand over hers that rested on his arm and stroked her knuckles. If Timothy hadn't been in the back seat he would have stopped the car to have an earnest talk with her. Perhaps he would have said too much. Asked, assumed or proposed things she wasn't at liberty to answer, yet.

"Can I… Tomorrow, when you've seen Sister Julienne, would you like to meet me then?"

He feared she would say no, and thus creating all sorts of distressing mental images in his head. Of her regret, and grief, and second thoughts, and urge to run away.

"Yes, Patrick. Very much so. Where? When?"

He tried to reconstruct his calendar for the following day. In his head it was blank.

"What day is it tomorrow?" he asked.

"Saturday," she laughed.

"Oh. Splendid. At…"

Home, he wanted to say, but didn't.

"At the Parish Hall? At one? We could go for lunch afterwards."

"Afterwards what?"

"Um, after we meet. I need to check how much polio vaccine we've ordered for the next few weeks. We'll be focusing on having all, or most, children vaccinated before the new year."

This was true, in a way. But he, or Timothy and he, had an important question to ask her, and the Parish Hall was as neutral as he could think of, given their former professional relationship. Not the nurses' office at Nonnatus, or his clinic room at his surgery, or his home. Mile End Park was close, but it was freezing outside, even for mid-November. And most of the time they had spent together for the better part of a decade had been at the bedside of a patient, or in one clinic or another.

"Look, Dad! There's Colin! Can you let me off here and I'll be home later," Timothy called out from behind them. Doctor Turner stopped by the sidewalk.

"No later than seven, Tim."

"OK. Seven. Bye Dad, bye Sister… um, what can I call you?" He looked intently at Shelagh with an embarrassed expression. "Do you want me to call you Miss… What is your last name, anyway?"

"It's Mannion, Tim, but I would like you to call med Shelagh."

"I've never heard that name before."

"It's Scottish. Do you find it's strange?"

"Um, yes, a bit. But pretty. Bye Shelagh. See you later, Dad!"

And he was off. Doctor Turner drove a few more blocks before her turned into St Stephen's Road. It was a nice road, with terraced houses. It was wider than Kenilworth Row, where his own flat was. He stopped outside the house with the discreet sign "Rooms to rent" next to the red door. He didn't want her to leave just yet. The two hours since he and Timothy had spotted her on the country road in Essex had passed in a blur. It was only four in the afternoon.

"Have you got everything you need, Shelagh? Is this a nice place to stay? We could…"

"Patrick, it's Mrs Baker who owns this house. The lady whose husband we treated for cancer two years ago. Pancreatic cancer. You remember. It was very quick, very painful, and Mrs Baker almost never left his side. The house was always spotless when we came, even though he was so ill and needed so much care. Mrs Baker always had tea ready and teacakes, still warm from the oven. It will be perfect."

He did remember, now that he had a patient to jog his memory. At the time, he'd never stopped to take in the exterior of the patient's home.

He nodded, and she began opening the door on her side of the car. Instinctively he reached for her, found her hand and pulled it to his lips. She leaned towards him, and he kissed her fingertips.

"I just don't want you to leave. I've only just found you."

She didn't say anything, but her eyes seemed to take on a darker blue hue than usually, and she observed him expectantly. Slowly he turned her hand palm up and pressed his lips to her fingertips again. With his eyes closed he let his lips follow her fingers to her palm and continued the kiss he'd started several months earlier.

A small gasp escaped her and when he looked up her eyes were closed but her lips parted. He pressed another kiss to the inside of her wrist, and inched the sleeve of her suit jacket a little higher. She smelled of flowers that somehow triggered the colour lilac in his mind. Lavender or violets. And something more. Something so far from the unwelcome smells that he unwillingly inhaled during a normal work day, that they could very well still have been in the middle of nowhere.

He lowered her hand, faced her and cupped her cheek. His fingers touched her hair and he resisted his impulse to run his fingers through the dark gold, sending hairpins and what's-not to the floor.

She opened her eyes, but he'd found a master in the art of silence.

"Tell me if I'm wrong," he whispered when he leaned into her. "Tell me to stop if…"

"Don't."

He stopped and followed the contour of her face with his thumb.

"I'm sorry. You are so…"

"No. Don't stop. I don't want you to stop. For so long, and so forbidden I've wondered…"

He pressed his lips to hers, cupped the back of her neck and felt her arms go around his shoulders. He had, too. For so long, and so forbidden. At the back of his head he tried to focus on their differences; that she was the most innocent and chaste woman he'd ever held in his arms, and that he was more of a starving widower who knew exactly what he missed and what he wanted. And then she parted her lips slightly and he couldn't keep a clear thought anywhere in his head. She tasted like the scent mixed with lilac flowers at her wrist. She tasted of love and hope and lust and everything he wanted and had wanted for so long.

He softly withdrew from their kiss, while he still could, and watched her blushing, angelic face in the semi-darkness of autumn. She met his gaze, bit her lower lip and then smiled. He thought he smiled, too.

"You make me so very happy," he whispered.

"As do you," she answered. "But Mrs Baker is by the window, and I should…"

"Of course! Let me get your suitcase."

He got out of the car in seconds, retrieved her suitcase and then opened the door to the passenger seat. The thought of anyone seeing them together made him feel slightly queasy. Rumours had a tendency to travel fast, and he couldn't bear the thought of anyone drawing the wrong conclusions about Shelagh and himself. Not until he was at liberty to contradict them.

Mrs Baker opened the door and beamed at them.

"Miss Mannion. Welcome. And hello Doctor Turner. Well, this brings back a few memories. You were both such a support to me when my husband was ill. I'm ever so grateful to be able to repay you, Miss Mannion. I understand that you've been away at a sanatorium, but are all better now."

Shelagh nodded and thanked Mrs Baker. Doctor Turner handed the suitcase to Shelagh and again their fingers brushed against each other. He remembered how he'd feared that would never happen again a few months back.

"Come in, dear. I've made a fresh pot and lit a fire in your room. Thank you for driving her over, Doctor Turner."

He only got a glimpse of Shelagh's amused expression before the door closed in his face. He felt decidedly dismissed and walked back to his car in a bit of a daze.

* * *

The shops were still open when he reached the High Street. In particular, the jeweller's was still open. The widow display was a glittering universe, and he tried no to get lost in the endless possible choices. He strived to convey what he wanted and the jeweller presented him with a tray with rings. With the memory of her taste and scent still in his mind he found it easy to pick out just what he pictured would look pretty on her left hand. And what would look even better next to a wedding band. If she said yes.

His own fingers were bare. The night he started writing to her in the sanatorium, the letter he never sent, he'd placed his old wedding ring in the box where he'd saved his late wife's small collection of jewellery. He wasn't sure why he kept the box, or its contents. For when Timothy grew up and found someone. If he found someone. He had no idea if the box of small bits and pieces in silver and gold, and a pearl necklace, would be of value, sentimental or other, but it took the decision out of his hands.

* * *

Later Timothy asked him it was a real diamond in the ring, and he admitted as much.

"But very small. GPs aren't exactly overpaid, as you know."

"No, but…"

"But what?"

"We have a car. And I've got a room of my own. Our house is not freezing in winter, like Frank's or Johnny's. And it's larger. And we go to the fish and chips shop often."

"Well, fish and chips are cheap. And I can't cook."

"I know you can't cook," Timothy giggled. "Except scrambled eggs on toast. Or beans on toast. Or sardines on toast. You're quite good with toasts, Dad."

"Well, thank you. Glad to hear you appreciate my limited culinary repertoire."

"That means what you can do in the kitchen, right?"

"Mhm."

"Why do you have to say it with such strange words, then?"

Doctor Turner frowned.

"Because I'm a grown-up. And know many words."

In his daily practice he often had to simplify his phrasing when talking to patients. It had taken him a while to adopt Sister Monica Joan's far more plain and to the point "arse first" when he'd begun working in Poplar and had to deal with breech births. Now he found himself easily describing bacterial infections as an army of small, enemy soldiers who was best dealt with by denying them water, by means of leaving a wound open to dry, rather than covering it with salves and thick bandages. But he missed the medical, exact language from his university days. When he'd thought he'd spend his career talking to colleagues about patients in the secret code of physicians. When he'd thought he'd make enough money to count himself well paid. When Timothy now said plainly that their house was better than most, in Poplar, and that he wasn't impressed with his Dad's attempt to widen his vocabulary, Doctor Turner realised how right his son was.

Admittedly, they had been through a terrible tragedy when they lost his wife and Tim's mother, but it had probably affected Turner senior worse then Turner junior. Timothy was born and raised in Poplar. He had friends who had neither mother nor father, but lived with grandparents, aunts, foster parents. The resilience of children. Timothy had friends who lived in tiny tenements with large families, where a bed of one's own, not to even mention a room, was out of the question.

But Patrick Turner had, when he was younger, newly qualified and filled with years of advanced studies, glimpsed the possibility of another, better, more affluent future. This possibility had seemed further and further away during his years in Poplar, and when he now thought about it he realised he didn't want it anymore. He belonged in Poplar, with patients who sometimes couldn't name parts of their anatomy, and with careworn mothers who begged him to perform some kind of procedure to stop them from getting pregnant again and again, and he was tempted to meet their wishes under the cover of a made-up exploratory procedure, which wasn't necessary. He felt he also belonged with the devout but stubborn nuns who gave their whole life to serve and support these people, and with the young nurses who came unprepared but grew into strong, compassionate and competent carers.

And Timothy was here. Poplar was the only home he'd ever known and Doctor Turner was proud when he saw, as he did often, his son growing into an open-minded, unbiased, helpful young man.

And Shelagh was here. Even if she wouldn't be one of the sisters after tomorrow, he knew how much she loved and cared about the people around them. His guilt and hopelessness about his feelings for someone so unattainable had weighed heavily on him for so long, he'd almost forgotten that life didn't necessarily was that bleak. As of tomorrow it might even be the opposite.

"Dad?!"

"Um, yes?"

"Were you asleep with your eyes open, or what?"

Doctor Turner smiled at his son.

"Something like that. What were you saying?"

"Asking. I was asking if you plan to use as many fancy words when you give the ring to Sister… sorry, to Shelagh."

He laughed at his son earnest question.

"No, I don't plan to. But you said earlier that you wanted to ask her. Or have you changed your mind?"

Timothy pondered the question.

"Well, no, but… If you give her the ring, she'll understand what you want, won't she? I can't give her the ring, because I don't want to marry her. Even if she is pretty."

"I should hope not."

"And I don't want to be there with you when you give her the ring. What if she says "no" or starts crying or…"

He shuddered, and so did his father inwardly. Doctor Turner tried to picture a nicer reaction to his proposal.

"Timothy. Do you want me to ask her, at all?"

His son looked surprised.

"Course, I do. She's really nice. I like her best of all the sisters."

"And do you want to be part of asking her?"

Timothy nodded.

"Then why don't you write the question and draw something pretty and I'll wrap the box with the ring in that piece of paper?"

His son beamed.

"What do you want it to say?"

"What do you want it to say, Timothy? How do you want to ask Shelagh if she wants to be a part of our family?"

"Maybe, would you like to marry my Dad? Or Please, will you marry my Dad? Or marry him and teach him how to cook?"

Doctor Turner stroked his son's hair.

"I liked your second suggestion best. Go get you coloured pencils. I'll pop out to the fish and chips shop for some supper."

"Great!"

After supper from greasy newspaper, Doctor Turner wrapped the box with the ring in the piece of paper Timothy had decorated and written on.

 _Please will you marry my Dad?_

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